


no good liar

by hypophrenia



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Canon Compliant, IT'S ONE SIDED SO PLS READ MY TRASH, M/M, cause i was around before ouma became oma yknow, dw saiouma haters it's one sided, i used the spelling ouma instead of oma btw, this is like a carbon copy of every other ouma centric fic whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 22:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypophrenia/pseuds/hypophrenia
Summary: Ouma lies for a number of reasons, really. To be kind, to make things interesting…but mostly because he wants to be hated. That’s why he wants Saihara to hate him more.(That’s a lie.)





	no good liar

**Author's Note:**

> since my friends all hate ouma have ouma hating himself. i'm an unashamed ouma lover catch these fists if you got a problem. (oh but i do agree ouma made some shitty choices, but that doesn't make him a bad-bad character okay)
> 
> anyways yeah i wrote this in like 5 hours pls validate me
> 
> btw this is dedicated to my ouma hater friends (if ur reading this right now gaylords go choke on a wasabi pea)

Ouma doesn’t like flowers. Especially the red ones; they stand out too much. They’re fragile little things with petals that can be ripped from their stems too easily, shredded by human hands. They’re weak, and weaklings have no place in this world.

It’s why he hates the killing game. His classmates are weak, weak, _weak_ , and they won’t survive. The good ones won’t, at least. The kind ones are the weakest. They’ll be shredded to pieces and trampled afoot.

That’s why he doesn’t like Kaede; not because he _actually_ doesn’t like her, but because she’s weak. She can’t survive a killing game. People like her can’t kill or live. They’re not ruthless enough.

In some way, he envies her. She can smile, trust people, be herself. Be liked. Be remembered. And that’s more than he’ll ever accomplish. At least, if he tries to play nice.

Ouma’s not nice. He hates himself more than he hates anyone else—and he knows no one will like him. Remember him. So he does the next best thing; he makes himself hateable. He makes sure no one, least of all Kaede, thinks of him with anything less than hatred.

It’s not hard. He lies and he jokes around and he spins the lives of his classmates on a single pinky finger. They’re expendable. They have to be, if he’s going to end this demented, twisted, disgusting game.

He’s just as disgusting. He knows Kaede’s going to die, one way or another.

He doesn’t do anything. Saihara’s devastated—of course he is. Of course he was going to be.

(He hates himself a little more for feeling relief that Kaede’s gone. _No more competition_ , a vindictive, malicious part of himself thinks, in sing-song and gleeful malevolence.)

Saihara’s sad and upset and gloomy and woeful for so long after. The little patience he had for Ouma shrivels up and withers away and _god_ , Ouma thinks, _I am_ repulsive.

His mind starts working overtime and before he knows it he’s surrounded by a hundred and one different ways the next murder could happen—but nothing about how to get Saihara to hate him a little less. For all his brains, he can’t even do a simple thing. It’s as if in the span of a few days he’s forgotten what it’s like to not play the villain.

So he continues to paint a web of lies, spider silk tangling up until Ouma can’t breathe _god he can’t breathe—_

And then silence.

\---

 _Saihara_ , Ouma thinks, _is beautiful_.

Saihara probably thinks the opposite of him. _That’s fine_ , Ouma tells himself. It’s a lie out of kindness, but it’s a lie even he can’t swallow.

Ouma lies for a number of reasons, really. To be kind, to make things interesting…but mostly because he wants to be hated. That’s why he wants Saihara to hate him more.

(That’s a lie.)

It’s simple. If he lies, he’ll be hated. If he’s hated, no one will forget about him. If he can’t make people think about him in a positive light—fine. So be it. He’ll sit with himself, by himself, in his pool of lies and self pity and hatred. He’ll get his attention, alright, get the opposite of the sort of validation he craves.

He can’t remember the exact point in this killing game when his desperate need for attention, to be remembered, turned toxic. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

Maybe he’s always been this way. Is it weird he can’t remember? He wouldn’t know.

And Saihara still isn’t coming out of his room. He’ll go hungry, he’ll give into pity...he’ll be like Ouma.

Saihara. When did Ouma start liking him? When did the sun revolve around the detective, the stars rise and set on his forehead?

Ouma hates it. It makes him weak, turns his legs to jelly and his heart to a bleeding sore. He hates that he doesn’t want to be hated by Saihara like he does the rest, (but, then again, does he want to be hated at all?) but that’s impossible. Saihara likes Kaede, not a poor excuse of a supreme leader that can’t remember the last time he truly liked himself.

Kaede’s gone and Amami’s gone and Saihara’s gone with them.

\---

“Sai-ha-ra!” Ouma makes his voice as airy as possible, light toned and sweet. It sounds horrifically fake. “How are you?”

“Ouma. What do you want.” It’s not a question, but a simple statement. Saihara’s tired—tired of Ouma, tired of the killing game, tired of life.

“How mean, Saihara. I wanted to see how you were doing, because secretly…” Ouma leans in, turning his voice into a whisper that cleanly echoes off the walls of the cafeteria. “I’m in love with you!”

“Oh, really.”

“Nope!” He places his hands behind his back and grins, hiding the tumble and fumble of his heart. “Saihara is an idiot for believing that. But don’t worry, I’ll love you nonetheless. Or will I?” His facade is perfect—but Saihara doesn’t _care_.

“That’s nice.” Saihara’s pretty voice is awfully monotone now. With a start, Ouma realizes this is the first time he’s been truly truthful with Saihara. And Saihara doesn’t even care.

Well, that’s his fault. He’s established his position as a liar; it wouldn’t make sense for the others to place faith in his words, now would it?

“Saihara, you’re so boring.” He’s not. “I’m going to find someone else more interesting to talk to.” He won’t. He’ll go back to his room and sleep until he can’t think anymore.

“Okay.” Ouma leaves behind an unresponsive Saihara and he can’t see straight the moment he closes the door to his dorm room.

If only he was the next victim. But the moment his eyes falls on his charts, messy diagrams painstakingly planned out, he knows he can’t afford to. He’s the only chance this messy, ragtag group of teenagers can beat the killing game.

( _But they all hate you_ , the rational part of him whispers. _They hate you and you can’t do anything about that_.)

“Shut up,” he whispers.

 _You can’t shut your own mind up, now can you?_ his thoughts echo back. _Stupid, stupid supreme leader. Can’t you do anything right?_

He can do anything short of being loved, Ouma thinks.

\---

Saihara gets better. He’s with Kaito and Maki now, laughing and smiling and being happy.

More murders happen; Ouma guesses every single one of them. He does near nothing to stopping them, and _god_ , will he ever end it?

He’s nowhere close to ending the killing game. He’s hated and he’s watched lives slip from his fingers. He hates himself more and more, but he can’t bring himself to kill himself—because the killing game’s still going on and if he can’t even end it, he’s truly worthless.

And when he has nothing better to do he lets himself daydream scenarios where Saihara would be saddened at his death and go, _oh, if only I spent more time with him_. But he knows Saihara too well; every scenario feels fake. He can’t live them without thinking _this is not Saihara. This is not real_.

So he pulls his head out of the clouds, tells himself he has a killing game to stop. But it’s not fair, isn’t it? He’s the one planning and thinking and trying so hard to end this killing game while the others just sit on their asses and pray that it somehow ends. They’re not the ones trying to outsmart the mastermind. They’re simply laughing and enjoying themselves and being happy—and Ouma wishes he was too, but he’s a liar and a fraud and he can’t be happy. He doesn’t deserve it.

Armed with a fake smile, he marches onwards. They all hate him; he’ll make them hate him more. Saihara was never someone he could love to begin with. He knows that.

It makes his heart hurt more.

\---

Gonta—and Iruma—are the first people he kills. Of course, not literally. He’s still alive while their bodies are off rotting away somewhere. He’s not the mastermind, the blackened.

That doesn’t make him any less guilty. The murder—it goes like this.

Ouma needs to end the killing game. He’s running out of time and more people are dying and he can’t just plan and plan anymore; he needs to do something.

There’s a game. With Iruma. And if their avatars die, so do they.

Ouma isn’t dumb. He isn’t naive. This world is controllable by Iruma; and Iruma despises Ouma. If given the chance, she could kill him. She will. The rooftop meeting is a ruse.

But his death isn’t the worrisome part. It’s the fact that this world is to her bidding; she can leave behind no evidence, and then she’ll kill everyone ( _Saihara_ ) by forcing a wrong vote.

He’s seen the truth. He can’t let everyone die; the killing game must end. And if it can’t be ended, he’ll prolong it until he can end it.

He has a plan the moment he puts together the key components. He’ll get someone with him to see the truth; and because he can’t kill Iruma himself, they’ll have to kill her. They’ll have to be willing to lay down their lives for this game to end.

He knows one person like that (two, actually, but he’s not ever going to ask Saihara). Gonta.

He shows Gonta the remembering light. Two will die this round. It’s better than eight.

Gonta strangles Iruma (and Ouma nearly throws up but he has to keep it in, he _has_ to) and then it’s done. There’s a murder on their hands and Ouma’s just as guilty as Gonta and has he ever hated himself so? No, no, not ever.

Then there’s the trial and Ouma hates himself for playing along but he has to, he has to so no one will die—and he gives out hints in the middle of his self loathing. He helps and he speaks and—Gonta does not admit it.

Ouma knows his emotions got the better of him. Betrayal stings far worse than bullet holes and knife wounds, and Ouma would know. And Gonta keeps repeating the same thing: “I don’t know.”

When he does figure out that Gonta truly doesn’t have memories, Ouma’s anger and hatred deflates. It’a replaced with self hatred and he can’t help but want to die, die a thousand times over, die with Gonta.

He offers to. He’s serious. There’s tears tracking down his cheeks and he hates himself so, so much. But Gonta refuses, and his self hatred increases.

He wants to die. He wants to die. He wants to die. But now he needs to put on his mask again, pretend to be the villain, be the source of evil everyone hates. They’ll hate him and they’ll band together and then he’ll—die. It’s the only fitting ending for him at this rate.

He leaves the courtroom with a solid resolve to end the killing game. He can’t let it go on any longer. He can’t forgive himself in any way, shape, or form. He’s disgusting.

That’s how the murder ends.

\---

He has one last plan. And it better damn well work, because after all this time—after all these deaths—it’s really his last option. His last idea, his last resort, the only thing he’ll ever have to do. Then he’ll be done. No more lies, no more sadness, no more...Saihara.

He needs; a bomb, a boy, poison, and lies. More lies. He needs to play the villain until the very end, go out in his own brilliant burst, a supernova of the brightest star. There’ll be no requiem for him, and he knows.

He paces around in his room, items alighting his gaze. Amami, hung upside down, too lifelike to stare at the right way up. His board, covered in portraits and lines. Papers, scattered around, with scrawled handwriting and half baked plans, most of which are stored in his mind. Plans and dreams and unexplored fantasies that’ll die with him.

That’s fine. It’s fine. It’ll be fine once he’s gone and the others don’t need to care about him anymore, and they’ll say, _oh, thank_ god _Ouma’s gone. He deserved his death, he got what was coming to him._

His eyes water up and—is he sick? Because why else would his eyes burn and his chest hurt and his legs tremble. He’s not weak. He can’t be.

He sniffles—god, does he even have the right to sniffle now, to show weakness like this—and then he’s good.

A sigh escapes his lips. Right. His plan to fool the mastermind, to make the mastermind slip up and reveal themselves.

 _Though_ , he has to wonder, _can it be that I just want an excuse to die the hero?_

Really, that’s so like him. He doesn’t want to be hated, but he’s already hated, can’t he see? He’ll die alone and maybe that will get their ( _Saihara’s_ ) pity and then that will all end.

Amami’s gaze doesn’t escape Ouma, and behind that calm expression the real one, the real Amami, seems to see right through him.

This had better work.

\---

The plan nearly fumbles and folds but Ouma has to keep it going in spite of his jumbled up nerves. He’s apparently a remnant of despair, Kaito’s in the hanger with him, and his arm burns. So does his back; must be the poison, then.

They’re both shuddering and gasping. This is the first time Ouma’s really been alone with Kaito and—and maybe, in another life, they could’ve been friends.

This thought gives him a half-choked giggle that sounds just as desperate as him, and he sounds so weak. Friends? He’s a liar and a fraud and he doesn’t deserve to live, to even think of being anywhere near Kaito Momota, Luminary of the Stars and the brightest person in the killing game. He can see it now, why people like him so much. They’re like opposites, gentle honestly to kind lies, rough encouragement to scathing motivation disguised as bits of poison.

No wonder even he doesn’t think too badly of Kaito. No one can.

Maki’s gone, off to find the others, most likely. Ouma’s already set so much of his plan in motion; there’s nothing she can do.

Ouma just needs to catch his breath. Then he’ll be ready to face what’s next. If only his stupid legs would move, or if only his fool’s heart would calm down.

He barely manages to choke out his plan to Kaito, and then the latter drags him away to his death. Kaito’s not gentle, but he doesn’t flip Ouma over or smash him against the floor, so he’ll consider that a win.

They film the decoy video, and Kaito lays him on the hydraulic press, and his back feels cold even with Kaito’s jacket under him and that’s his _death_ arriving to greet him, isn’t it? He’s really going to die and he doesn’t know what to say and is that really it? Is that really his end?

The ceiling winks out a couple of times, and Kaito’s just a purple bruise-blur before Ouma can focus his eyes on the other. Kaito’s eyes are filled with pity, pity he shouldn’t feel for Ouma, but there it is.

“Got anything to say before you die?” Kaito’s voice is a grumble and a grunt but there’s more softness there than anything Kaito’s ever said to Ouma before. Which isn’t really a contender considering how horribly they got along, but Ouma can’t help but think of that.

In another life, he might’ve loved Kaito if Kaito weren’t Kaito and Ouma wasn’t Ouma. So now the position of Kaito is for Saihara—isn’t that wonderful? To love someone who hated your guts and oops; his guts would splatter against the hydraulic press soon, huh? How morbid.

“Yeah, that I love you!” Ouma forces a smile that wobbles and looks god-awful, and his voice is much less cheery than he wants it to be.

“...that’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“You know me so well. Can it be that _you’re_ the one in love with me?” Kaito’s expression is still one of pity. How he can feel pity for someone who’s practically condemned him to death, Ouma doesn’t know.

“Sure.” Kaito only says that because Ouma’s dying. They both know that.

Ouma’s eyes start sliding closed, and if they’re going through with this plan, it has to be now.

“You’ve been lying to yourself all this time, haven’t you?” There it is again, that gruff, soft look on Kaito’s face.

“Ma-aybe. But maybe not.” Ouma grins again; he has to keep up his image, doesn’t he? Smiling to the end, unreadable to his death.

Briefly, he wonders what Saihara’s doing. But, ah, he must be happy, right? Without Ouma to pester him, without Ouma to annoy him.

The hydraulic press comes down, and that’s really it. That’s how it’s coming to an end, and now the curtains are drawing and Ouma can’t be at the center of the stage anymore, can he? But was he ever, after all this time?

He sees metal pressing down, and—

(“ _You’re alone, Ouma. And you always will be_.”)

All he can see is Saihara.


End file.
